


Pas de Deux

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anger, Drabble, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your mouth meets his, you can taste the blood upon his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for the end of the book/show.
> 
> Rated mature for violence.

The knife is jagged and sharp and laced with the sting of orange-juice. You press it inwards; drive it slowly down his face. Teach him. Teach him. Teach him.

Teach him so he will remember.

He is infuriatingly quiet as you do it. You would have him scream. Have him scream and moan and shudder at the memory of it; have him think of it always. Have him scarred from it, always.

But he does not scream. The blood wells up, red, dark, seeping up through flesh and down to the blade, its handle, your fingers. He does not scream but you have him so close against the wall that you can feel the tightness of his body as he wills himself still, limbs tense, tendons taut, heart beating fast against his ribs. Beating as fast as yours.

As you finish, eye down to mouth, another sideways smile, red and broken, seeping down to your fingers, his collar. As you finish he takes a short, tense breath, your chest pressed against his, and he raises his fist, clenched, in the corner of your vision, ready to strike. He raises his eyes, also.

The threat is plain. His gaze mocks you, laughs at you, at the knife in your hand. His teeth bare in a snarl, he takes another short breath against your chest and grabs you roughly by the collar.

When your mouth meets his, teeth, tongue, wet and angry, you can taste the blood upon his lips; a matt, metallic taste. And still he does not moan, does not shudder nor scream. You push him harder against the wall, his lips meet yours, tongue meets yours, and you bite down.

You are staggering backwards before you know it. He punches hard, you know now, ears ringing, temple throbbing. Your vision blackens. The knife is gone from your hand, skittered away across the floor, a glint in the corner of the room. Your head spins, dizzy.

And he is upon you. There is a fist to your stomach and you double over, wheezing and gagging. Everything is sickening, dark, and then the world rises as he grabs you up by your hair, sharp pain, and presses his mouth to yours again.

Teeth, tongue, blood, wet, his hands in your hair and yours at his collar. Lips push, moist, slick and then he bites, hard. Bites again. You rise upwards, breathing in quickly, lip stinging, mouth thick. He follows the movement and you reach out, blindly. You reach out and find the ragged cut on his cheek, and you dig your fingers in.

There's a cry as he staggers backwards, cupping the cheek with his palm, teeth bared, chest panting. He's a mess: disgraced. Disgraceful. His collar is bloody; shirt is bloody; waistcoat bloody. It's smeared across his face, running pink between his teeth. You can taste it, can feel it, drying, cracking, tight across your top lip, can feel it clagging wetly beneath your fingernails.

He glowers at you, eyes dark.

And you know that you have won.

So you smile; you triumphant, he ruined. You smile and you demand, justly, rightly, that Norrell dismiss him from his post.

Norrell, small and shrinking, looks between you both, and obliges.


End file.
